


Muddy Waters, Until Now

by goodbye_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hurt/Comfort, Mpreg, Multi, Unrequited Love, country music AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbye_dean/pseuds/goodbye_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh off a bus from New York, Castiel Novak is ready to take on Music City. Amongst a sea of thousands of other hopeful singers and songwriters starving for attention, Castiel must prove himself worthy of every opportunity that comes his way: love, friendship, honesty, and recognition.</p>
<p>Based on the movie <em>The Thing Called Love</em>. Loosely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muddy Waters, Until Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So it's been a while since I've written anything for AO3. But I'm back with this fic. I hope you enjoy! And for those of you who have read my other fic, Burning Love, I will be posting a new chapter for that soon. Until then, reread it and enjoy this new juicy nugget. (I have no beta. Please put down the torches and pitchforks.)

When I left New York, there were only two things I was leaving behind. One was a community garden my apartment complex owned and neglected, that I put too much effort into reviving and nurturing. The other was an overdue library book fee from the summer after I finished high school and was rejected from every college I’d applied to. The garden was an escape and the book was Around the World in 80 Days. As I stepped onto my Greyhound, there was no one outside waving at me for a final goodbye. No one pestering me for a phone call once I reached my destination. And maybe that would’ve upset most, but I was leaving a city that no longer felt like home, in search of some place that might.  


The Greyhound trip south was long, taking a little over half a day, but I was lucrative with my time, keeping my notebook open and my pen prone as each hour spent in our shared captivity, the bus driver announced the diminishing miles left until we reached Nashville. Most passengers slept, snoring mildly against their windows or their neck pillows, but the most I took was a cat nap somewhere in the middle of Virginia, waking up when my Yankees cap, pulled low to cover my eyes, fell off as we hit a literal rocky road. My guitar rested soundly against my legs inside its case, though I knew it was still being knocked around in there, slipping out of tune. I’d have only about 20 minutes to get from the station to the café. I’d have to tune it in a taxi, most likely, and the song I’d been writing since my departure was shaky at best. But damn it if I was about to take a shot.  


The bus depot had a giant clock hanging inside its terminal as I sped into it, trying my hardest to ignore my urge to pee. It was 3:35 and auditions at the Roadhouse Café started at 4. I scrambled outside with my bags in my hands and my guitar strapped to my back. Across the street was a lone, white taxi, the driver’s head lulling to one side in sleep. I whistled out of instinct, heads turning on both sides of the street as the sound echoed in the otherwise uninterrupted bustle of the day. The cabbie awoke, startled, and turned to find me motioning for a pick up.  


“It’s not every day you hear something like that in these parts,” he said after he’d pulled up in front of me and I’d started loading my things into the back seat.  


“I’m sorry. I’m just used to hailing a cab from the center of a mob.”  


“Where to, new guy?” I could tell he’d eyed my guitar from his review mirror and as I sat down. He smiled at me knowingly. “Let me guess, the Roadhouse Café.”  


“How’d you know?” The taxi roared as he peeled away from the curb.  


“I just know the look in your eyes. It’s Thursday afternoon, you’re from out of town, and you’ve just got that smell of ‘need.’ I’ve driven thousands of you guys to that place and I don’t blame you for wanting to try. I’ve auditioned several times myself, to be honest.”  


“You have?” I asked, only mildly surprised. Who in this town hadn’t? New York was a town of hopefuls, everyone wanting their talent to be recognized. Why should a town with the moniker ‘Music City’ be any different?  


“Yeah. Even had a top 20 hit two years ago. I don’t like telling folks like you that, because it’s discouraging, I suppose, but that’s life. You do what you love not for the money, but for the love of it. You drive taxis for the money.”  


The rest of the ride was silent as I hurriedly tuned my guitar, my song lyrics sitting on my knee. When we pulled up to the café, there wasn’t a parking space left and the doors were already closed.  


“Tough break, my friend. I thought we were going to make it.”  


“Wait, what do you mean?” I asked as I tried to barrel out of the cab.  


“Doors close at 4. Ellen Harvelle won’t let you perform unless you’re in the doors and have signed the audition slip before then.” My heart sank as I looked at the clock on his dashboard to confirm it. It was 4:06.  


“But I’ve come all this way.” I had already pulled my things out of the backseat and had handed the man his fare. He just shrugged his shoulders and started the taxi back up.  


“That really is a tough break. But there’s always next Thursday.”  


“Excuse me, what time is it?” A voice broke from across the lot. I turned to see a man with a guitar case power walking towards the café, determination in his tall stride. He had sunglasses on, was wearing an oversized leather jacket, and he was scowling deeply, making me think maybe that’s just what his face looked like.  


“It’s too late,” I answered, feeling my shoulders sink as I realized I’d come all his way for nothing. The taxi driver frowned and pulled away without offering to take me somewhere else, but I didn’t stop him. Instead I watched in wonder as the guy kept his frantic pace as he passed me and continued toward the café.  


“You got a flat tire and I stopped to help you fix it,” he yelled over his shoulder, pausing midstride when he saw that I hadn’t started following him.  


“What?”  


“I said I helped you fix your flat tire, but we both made it here safe and sound. It’ll be a lot more believable if we play to Ellen’s sympathies. If you can cry convincingly, I’ll give you five bucks.” Partly out of impulse, partly out of shock, I followed him inside, though I had no intention of playing along with his ruse.  


Inside, someone was already performing on stage and every chair was filled with someone looking up at that stage longingly, either clutching an instrument or something with frenzied lyrics scribbled on it. The guy I’d followed in bee-lined to a woman watching the man on the stage intently from behind the bar, two large stacks of paper in front of her. Without taking her eyes off the stage, she could sense his presence.  


“Don’t you dare give me a half-baked excuse today, Dean. These people waited patiently, like you’re supposed to, so they’re the ones that get my attention today.”  


“Are you sure you don’t want to hear my excuse, Ellen? It’s a real good one.”  


She rolled her eyes and look at him sidelong, her eyes flicking to me from over his shoulder. “What is it this time?”  


“It just so happens that this young gentlemen behind me was on his way here as well, but he got a flat tire. Me, being the soft-hearted Samaritan I am, stopped and helped him fix it.” She turned to him, removing her attention from the stage fully.  


“Well, that’s awfully sweet of you, Dean, but next time you should let the cab driver change his own damn tire.” Just then, the act on stage finished and Ellen stood up to hush the crowd’s applause. “I’m sorry, folks. My attention got a little deviated, so how about an encore performance from Mr. Garth Fitzgerald?” The crowd clapped again, although not as enthusiastically as they had at the end of his performance. Garth sat back down in front of the microphone, suddenly appearing twice as nervous as he had while he was playing the first time.  


“Sorry boys, you’ll just have to wait until next time. Rules are rules,” Ellen said as she settled back down and made notes on the piece of paper in front of her.  


“Rules are meant to be broken, Ellen,” Dean scoffed, taking a seat at the opposite end of the bar and ordering a beer.  


Still a little shell shocked from everything, I made for the door, not knowing where I would go now or what I would do. I was in a strange city where I knew absolutely no one. I had enough money to get by for a while, but if I was going to take this seriously, I would have to get a job somewhere. I was foolish to think that music would suddenly be my soul occupation.  


Outside the Roadhouse Café, the sun was a brutal flash of reality, leaving me temporarily blind and more disoriented than usual. When my vision finally cleared, I noticed a sign across the street advertising cheap rooms at what looked like a grungy motel. The Drake offered rooms for $30 a night, $175 if you paid for a week in advance. I opened my wallet and counted my cash. After reaffirming what I had originally thought, I strode toward The Drake, knowing that a week would really be stretching my limited budget, but it would have to work for now. I only knew this street, this block, in all of Music City. For now, this would be my home.


End file.
